


Inevitable

by HuntressDaughter



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Except no one has the same soulmate, M/M, Multi, Platonic Soulmates, Romance, Romantic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9259604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuntressDaughter/pseuds/HuntressDaughter
Summary: Vasquez had been waiting for the day when he’d meet someone who he felt would say the single word on his arm. Never had he expected that day would entail six complete strangers setting off on what could only be a suicide mission, so when it happens, he thinks nothing of them except that maybe Goodnight is right; maybe Billy Rocks is a man to befriend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This mess came from a few Tumblr posts. One was about you having your soulmates last words on your arm, and the other was about Billy and Vasquez being soulmates.
> 
> If you like it, or if you don't, or if you just want to talk about Mag7, feel free to leave a comment.

_Goody_.

That has been tattooed on Vasquez's arm since the day he was born, five small, straight letters written in an impeccably steady hand.

Since Faraday's group had joined with Sam's, Goodnight Robicheaux hadn't stopped chattering, making friends with them all, but Billy Rocks had remained Goodnight's shadow, never too far from the Cajun, always watching for any sign of danger. 

"I'm surprised we lived to tell the tale," Goodnight finishes after dinner, having told them about the eight-foot mountain lion he and Billy had encountered and narrowly escaped.

Laughter bubbles at Vasquez's lips, and he points at the Cajun. "You—you are full of  _meirda."_

"Hope that means shit." The words are so quiet and unexpected that no one says anything for a moment, each head around the fire swiveling until it lands on Billy, who tenses under their gaze, a man used to nothing good coming from such a gesture. But then the little camp erupts in laughter.

"Oh, Billy, you traitor," Goodnight scolds without a hint of harshness, nearly drowned out by the other five. Billy glances at their faces uncertainly before he lets himself chuckle. When they quiet, Emma leaves the fire, and slowly they trickle off to their own corners.

Billy had yet to say a word all evening until that point, but he moved with such a guarded grace that he didn't need to speak to get his point across. He could kill you with the flick of his wrist, and he would be as elegant as a ballerina doing it; but do not bother him, and he would have no reason to demonstrate. It's a good trick to have out here.

Vasquez had been waiting for the day when he’d meet someone who he felt would say the single word on his arm. Never had he expected that day would entail six complete strangers setting off on what could only be a suicide mission, so when it happens, he doesn’t think anything of them. He doesn't think he has a draw whatsoever to any of these people: not the drunken gambler who’d yet to say anything decent to him; not the fiery-headed beauty or her mealy-mouthed friend; not the jabbering Rebel with the sharp eyes or his surly Asian partner; not the stoic, withdrawn bounty hunter. 

They lounge around the fire that evening, and Vasquez thinks nothing of them except that maybe Goodnight is right; maybe Billy Rocks is a man to befriend.  

* * *

It’s on their first night in the town that it happens.

They are sitting out on the steps of the saloon, basking in their victory, getting to know each other now that a battle has brought them together. Vasquez is leaned against the railing, half-perched on the banister, watching them; the only other person including themselves less is Red Harvest, who sits more in the shadows as he silently regards the strangers. Faraday is doing whatever it takes to get a rise out of Billy, who has an incredible talent at pretending things in which he has no interest don't exist, while Goodnight rocks in one of the chairs, telling a story of some sort in his slow drawl to Sam and Horne. Vasquez doesn’t know whether to pay attention to Faraday or miss the beginning of the gambler’s upcoming beating by tuning into Goodnight’s story.

He chooses the latter when Sam and Horne laugh heartily, two people he never would have expected it from. Goodnight laughs too, probably more out of satisfaction at himself than amusement, and Sam shakes his head, saying, “You’re too much sometimes, you know that, Goody?”

Catching it in his throat, he chokes on a gasp so softly that he doesn’t think anyone has heard. But there the three of them are, turning to him just as he grabs at his forearm. He hopes they won’t notice, but he’s already learned that Sam doesn’t let a single thing slide by him. Sam’s eyes flicker between his arm and his face quicker than he could have drawn his gun.

Vasquez drops his hand, and Sam turns back to Goodnight, the man famous for his sharp eyes who has not missed it either.

* * *

Billy’s hands, usually so soft, have roughened since arriving in Rose Creek, but Goodnight loves them nonetheless. He loves them when they’re polishing those prized knives, when they’re throwing down cards after Billy has undoubtedly lost. He certainly loves them now when one is tangling their fingers together while the other nestles in his hair, tugging gently to pull him towards Billy’s face.

He loses himself in Billy’s touch like he’s done so many times before, so many times though he feels like he can never get enough. He runs his own calloused hand over the flat expanse of Billy’s stomach, filled out since their first meeting, and down his arms as he slips off Billy’s shirt.

 _I got him_. 

That’s what’s written on Billy’s arm in familiar loops from a hand that couldn’t bother to be hurried when writing. He knows that writing as well as he knows the words on his own arm because he spent years being trained to get those kinds of perfect letters. He’s spent so much of his breath waxing poetic over meaningless things, and he hates himself that he could do that, but when the time comes, those will be his last words to Billy.

The words on the inside of his wrist are elegantly scripted in tidy writing, a permanent symbol on him of the person to whom they belonged. He knows they will not be Billy’s words for a few reasons: Billy’s handwriting would never come close to looking like that, and if Billy uses his dying breath to speak any language other than English, it will not be French. He’s always known that those aren’t Billy’s words, but he’s loved the man anyways.

Mostly, though, Goodnight knows they’re not Billy’s words because he heard them fourteen years ago, and now they’re buried under a pile of rubble in Louisiana.

* * *

Billy had liked working with Vasquez because the man could either take conversation or leave it, and because of how Billy is, they’d usually worked in silence.

There’s something familiar in Vasquez. He guesses it’s because Vasquez knows the pain from being frowned upon in both the country he calls home and the one he left behind. The Mexican keeps mostly to himself, but he's easy to smile, quick with a joke, and he never lets Faraday's head get too inflated; Billy is grateful for that, considering how Faraday acted in Goodnight's shooting class. Whatever it is, he doesn’t question it but takes comfort in Vasquez’s companionship.

Now they're alone in the bar, Billy downing shot after shot while Vasquez pours. Unexpectedly, the Mexican has opted for conversation, babbling about racist things that he’s encountered along his way, but unlike Goodnight, Vasquez gives him a chance to respond, so he does, reminiscing on some of the more ludicrous instances, if only to focus on something other than the fact Goodnight has  _left_. Probably for good.

“Drinking alone? _No bueno, torpe_ ,” Vasquez had said when he sat down, reaching behind the bar for a glass of his own. He’d poured them both a shot and downed it in perfect synchronization with Billy. He’d made a face. “That’s _no bueno_ either, but it’s better than nothing.

When they’ve made it halfway through the bottle, Vasquez changes topics. “I tell you about how I met Sam? He found me in a cabin, living with _un _cadáver__ , that’s all I had. Said he’d give up my bounty if I came, so I did. Now look at us, we have all these amigos.”

“One,” Billy says shortly, rubbing the bridge of his nose; his glass is blurring in and out of his vision. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful for Vasquez at the moment, but he knows that even after the week, he still has one friend, and that is Goodnight, and Goodnight is gone, and he’s going to die tomorrow, and he always thought he’d die with Goodnight, but he can’t make himself feel angry at his partner for leaving.

“No, _torpe_ ,” Vasquez insists, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Six…or five amigos and our entertainment.”

Billy scoffs, “Hope you mean Faraday,” earning a grin from Vasquez, and he can’t help but chuckle along with the Mexican. It’s almost similar to the way Goodnight grins, one side higher than the other, immensely smug but not to the point that it isn’t endearing. And in that moment, he is grateful for Vasquez, who quiets down and lets them drink in silence.

“It hasn’t all been bad,” Billy says when they've drained the bottle and head for their rooms. Vasquez falls in beside him with his loping gait, so different from Goodnight's swaggering stride.

“Oh really? What’s been good,” Vasquez asks with that toothy, mischievous grin, but something in his tone sounds genuine. He pauses outside Billy's door, the door to the room he'd shared with Goodnight.

Billy shrugs. Before he’d come to America, he’d known nothing but hardship, and that hadn’t changed when he’d arrived here; he'd been met with grueling labor and bigotry wherever he’d gone. And then he’d walked into a Texas bar with a bounty on his head. “Goody.”

* * *

He thought maybe it would be Faraday, smarting off sarcastically.

He thought maybe it would be Sam, telling him to go after Goodnight.

He thought maybe it would be Goodnight himself, insisting that he call him Goody before they parted ways.

Now he’s in the middle of the town, the store blazing out with smoke still billowing up from it. Wood litters the streets, mingling with the bodies, and he shakes his head when Sam asks about Faraday. He’s known these men for seven days, one for each of them, but he never guessed that after seven days it would hurt this much. Maybe he’s never really wanted to have any responsibility because he was afraid of this right here.

Sam turns towards the church where Goodnight is now sprawled on the ground, grey suit peppered with bullet holes more than a decade too late. If he glances up at the bell tower, he can make out the edge of a hat and a bit of white shirt, a man who spoke rarely, unaccustomed to people displaying anything resembling kindness towards him; and maybe that had been the draw, that while he too knew of terrible loneliness, he could also see the warmth in Billy Rocks. Billy Rocks may have had Goodnight Robicheaux, but he had been bursting at the seams with untapped friendship, hidden under years of abuse.

He knows that the battle should be echoing in his mind, but all he can hear is that single word, permanently etched into his skin. A single word from a man he had not yet fully met.

_Goody._

**Author's Note:**

> Vasquez's Spanish:  
> Mierda-Shit  
> No bueno, torpe-Not good, klutz.  
> Cadáver-Corpse


End file.
